i do not agree

in the morning light i see
a yellow footprint made by the night
scarification of nocturnal amputations
i was born carrying my hands
i say: all our mistakes are tying new
nerves into knots
the green leaves watch the stars escape
in broad daylight
a wind with silver muscles slaps me in the face
and gets away with it
dawnlit thieves whose oaths in the undergrowth
put a lizard in my mouth
tonight the night frightens itself
to death
the feathered mountain cannot fly
lightning is unleashed but it is not free
i might comply
but i do not agree

maybe

winter attended my birth
in memory we conclude
this puppetry with a lantern
under the bed
that abyss in your savage
heart with bloody deeds holding up a wine glass
my soul is chained to mindless pomposity
like a butterfly of dust to a river
or your face when you first slithered
out of your mother
clotted with blood
from a shattered august you arrived whole
in your fragrance a lost child
with the same dark strength of the new moon
in the branches woven through the naked
birds
the rain was nude also
and sad also
without a melody
but there was
a contraption that spied you
through the fog
and numbered the days
*

how the devil
talks nonsense
the fruit of the womb
crucified in the palm of his hand
trees without trees in their leaves
the children are in charge of troublemaking
there are four skies in the sky
and vices beside the still waters
where you were beside yourself celebrating
but she was raped
and we went on as if she didn't
exist
*

maybe
to know her deadly kiss
her cold tongue
in my sleeplessness through the sky’s passageways
her electrifying nocturnal fragrance and
vertical dawns
will bow me down
before her double sided face of purity
and suffering
she says: you are small in my silence
lost in my wandering precision
possessed in my pitiful selfishness
noon cobbles the way beginning with midnight
it is a terrible thing cried a mindless protest
in the bitter tower of my fabled black snow
*

candy

if your clitoris tasted like licorice
my eyes would be smiling not speaking
the stoners in the parking lot rehearse oblivion
and couldn't care less about the days' insatiable
appetites
(worm dust or
gallexies in smithereens)
if your wrinkled nipples tasted like fried aluminum
insane asylums or
a tropical strength mosquito repellent that can't stop laughing
in the panting chattering or something else distracting
we'd just jingle and get along
but the parking lot won't last it used to be a tree
until it rained poisoned frogs
everything is a miracle until you kill it
with your shoe's tooth
look at the moth perched on the rim of the moon's reflection!
you taste like cherry candy in a box from a factory
a factory where your mother went crazy